Artyom stood frozen, breath locked in his chest as the massive cobra loomed before him. Its hood unfurled like a dark, living banner, and its eyes—two cold, bottomless beads—held him in a trance of primal terror. Time stretched into something slow and syrup-thick, as if the world itself had paused to witness the encounter.

The wind in the mountains died. Even the distant crackle of gunfire—usually as common as the heartbeat of this land—fell away. There was only the soldier and the snake.

But the cobra did not strike.

Instead, with a deliberate, almost ceremonial motion, it lowered its head, touching the cold earth. Then it lifted its gaze again, staring directly into Artyom’s eyes. Not with hunger. Not with hatred. But with something eerily close to intention.

Almost like a warning.

Artyom swallowed hard. His instincts screamed to retreat, to raise his rifle, to do something—anything—but something deeper, more ancient, whispered:

Don’t move. Listen.

The cobra turned its head ever so slightly toward the left ridge. Its body tensed, coils tightening. And that was when Artyom heard it—a faint, almost inaudible crunch of gravel. Then another. And another.

Footsteps.

Not friendly.

His pulse thundered. He had been trained to recognize the subtle differences: the rhythm, the weight distribution, the cautious pauses. These weren’t the footsteps of his comrades. These were quiet, careful—predatory.

Ambush.

Artyom’s mind snapped into clarity.

He pressed his body lower against the trench wall, moving slowly, carefully, making no sudden gestures. The cobra did not attack him; instead, it held its ground like a living barricade, shielding him from anyone peering in from above.

The moments stretched as the footsteps drew nearer. A shadow shifted along the ridge. Artyom’s fingers tightened around his rifle. He could feel the cold metal trembling with the same fear crawling up his spine—but there was no room for panic. Not now.

Then, faintly, he heard voices—whispers in a language he recognized instantly.

Not Russian.

His breath hitched.

The enemy scouts were already in position.

His mind raced. If he had climbed out of the trench—even a second earlier—he would have been silhouetted against the fading twilight. An easy target. A dead man.

But he hadn’t.

Because this cobra—this impossible guardian—had stopped him.

Slowly, the great snake lowered its hood and slipped to the side, its movements silent as smoke. It didn’t leave. It remained close, coiled in a protective semicircle beside him—as if waiting.

Artyom dared not question it. Survival instinct overrode any attempt at logic. He steadied his breath and pressed his ear to the cool dirt, listening. At least three enemies, maybe four. Moving with the confidence of men who believed they were invisible.

Minutes crawled by.

Finally, when their steps moved farther down the path—toward one of the outer posts—Artyom rose just enough to peer through a crack between two stones.

And his heart dropped.

Sergei—the friend he had replaced—should have been there at that distant post.

But the enemy had beaten him to it.

Artyom saw a quick flash of movement. A muffled cry. A sharp impact. Then silence.

His stomach twisted. His throat went dry. He wanted to scream, to run, to fire blindly into the fading dusk—but he forced himself to stay still. Recklessness would only get him killed… and dishonor Sergei’s memory.

He lowered himself once more, trembling.

And the cobra—still beside him—lifted its head and made a slow, deliberate sway.

As if urging him:

Wait.

Think.

Survive.

Artyom didn’t understand how or why, but something inside him recognized the strange, fragile connection formed weeks ago… when he had fed the tiny hatchlings without expecting anything in return. In this desolate part of the world, kindness was rare. And remembered.

Even repaid.

He exhaled softly, letting the tension bleed from his body. The mountain night grew colder, darker. The faint moonlight cast ghostly shadows across the trench. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled—a long, mournful sound that echoed through the empty valleys.

The cobra shifted again, tapping its tail lightly against Artyom’s boot.

Warning. Urgency.

He pressed his back to the dirt wall, tightening his grip on the rifle. His mind sharpened, painting a map of the terrain, the enemy positions, the possible routes back to camp. The realization sank in:

He wasn’t safe yet.

Not even close.

But he was alive.

And now he had something he didn’t have before:

A chance.

The snake lifted its head one final time, meeting his gaze. Then, with a whisper of scales sliding over rock, it began to move—slowly, stealthily—along the trench wall, as if expecting him to follow.

As if guiding him.

Artyom hesitated only a second.

Then he followed.